Four Last Songs
by Antonia Caenis
Summary: Four loosely linked one-shots inspired by the songs. Kudos and the singer/songwriters own what is theirs.
1. Heart's A Mess

**FOUR LAST SONGS**

**1. Heart's A Mess **

Fury and frustration fought in equal measure inside his head as he strode away along the Embankment, oblivious to the passing crowds, the sunshine and the view. And also oblivious to the beseeching gaze that the woman still seated on the bench behind him was casting his direction from wounded eyes. There were times, including now, when he could either roar or punch something when he was dealing with her and her convoluted thought processes but he knew that doing either would achieve nothing so he continued to walk, fast, until the two emotions simmered down enough for him to take stock. That took him until he was past Lambeth Bridge and approaching the 1930's Dutch barge "Tamesis", now permanently moored up against the shore as a party boat, where he finally came to a stop and stared out over the river, not seeing the buildings, including the Tate and Thames House, brooding on the other bank.

He really had no idea of how to deal with this new incarnation of Ruth Evershead. In the past, all it had needed was patience although, he supposed, her hypersensitivity on the subject of other people knowing about them should have been a warning of sorts even that far back. Had they had the time he was certain he could have talked her around from that issue, though, but of course they hadn't had the time... Now, ever since her return and the events tied to it, he had been at a total loss as to how to proceed or even whether to proceed. He knew, deep down, that they still felt the same as they always had but George and his death had built an apparently insurmountable obstacle between them and he was fast getting to the point of wondering if it would be better for them both if he were to detach himself and let her go. Not that, even if he did, it would make things any easier for either of them.

Watching a police boat motoring past, heading upstream, he admitted to himself that he had wanted her to get up and follow him just now, maybe as some sort of unstated test, but she hadn't so he was left contemplating why that might have been. Either she was in as confused a state as he was or she didn't think it was worth it. That they were worth it. He devoutly hoped it was the former because the latter would be totally crushing. With that thought came the acknowledgement that he really wasn't ready to give up the fight yet, leaving him with no option but to try and work out what was happening and how they could get around it. On the subject of the Cypriot doctor he couldn't quite decide whether she had really forgiven him for the decision he had made or not but he also had to wonder whether her recognising that she understood, perfectly, _why_ he had had no choice but to let George die had actually wounded her more, adding to that self-perpetuating feed-back loop of guilt and punishment that he knew existed deep inside her mind. He made no claims to being any good at complex psychology but he had known her long enough, and was familiar enough with her background, to know that a lot of her internal talk was not good.

He leaned on the concrete barrier and briefly scrubbed at his eyes. If only he could work out a way to pick apart the defences she had erected around herself and encourage her to let him in, just a little, to her thoughts and heart so he could _understand_ better and act more in a way she would appreciate because it seemed that all they had been doing since her return was talking at cross-purposes and achieving nothing except inflicting pain on each other. Not wilfully, they just seemed to be inhabiting completely different planets most of the time, with work being the only place where they occasionally seemed to be on something approaching the same wave length. It was becoming a private obsession, this desire to know her thoughts, but it wasn't getting him anywhere and he often wondered if he registered at all on her internal monologue. Probably not, or not to the same extent as she did on his, at least.

A gaggle of tourists pushed their way past behind him, intent on getting to the barge for some refreshment, momentarily breaking his train of thought. Contemplating the surface of the river, flowing swift and silent as always, he considered the little he actually knew about her background and how it may have influenced her. Losing her father at a very impressionable age had obviously been the first and probably the major hurt, probably leaving her feeling adrift and rudderless and so, as she would do later with her work, she had thrown herself into the certainty and safe haven of education and knowledge. Presumably that was the first time she had locked away her feelings and thrown away the key and he suspected that, every time she had cracked the door open since, she had quickly slammed it shut again through either being hurt or the fear of being hurt. Certainly the fear would explain her behaviour before she had had to leave while George's demise had proven to be the ultimate example of the actuality of hurt. So now she had locked herself away again, perhaps permanently, meaning she wouldn't get burned but making it almost impossible for him to make her see it didn't have to be that way.

Not that he could talk. Not with his history of locking away his own emotions behind impenetrable barriers when things had gone to shit several times in his life. The difference was that he was now old enough to know that locking yourself away not only didn't work but, in the long run, genuinely didn't help. At all. Watching a duck dabbling with more interest than success at the muddy water's edge below him, he silently observed that there was probably some considerable irony in the fact that he, notoriously contained and unemotional, was now desperate to find a way to emotionally connect to someone who had also buried her desires so deeply she could barely recognise them. In his case the lockdown had been a result of a combination of not trusting himself to _not_ stuff everything up yet again, should he ever be given another chance, and a strong dislike of emotional pain; for her, he wondered if it was a mix of the same pain-aversion along with her deep-seated lack of self-confidence and a strong tendency to blame herself every time something around her went wrong, whether the failure had anything to do with her or not. She had always taken their defeats far too strongly to heart but in the past she had at least been able to enjoy their victories; now, she seemed to have lost even that ability, viewing the world entirely through a lens of negativity. It lent her a veneer of hardness that quietly broke his heart and made him despair of ever getting through to her. He sighed silently. If his heart was a mess, hers was worse but at least he recognised it in himself while she apparently couldn't even do that, let alone admit it to anyone else, least of all him.

He suddenly felt very tired and rather old, despite the warmth of the sun on his back and the light dancing on the water's surface. An intense desire to give this woman he loved, despite everything, a gentle shake and _tell_ her that love, like life, was neither fair nor safe, washed over him but he knew he wouldn't do it because he had a good idea of what her reaction would be and, having felt the sharp side of her tongue too often of late, he knew it wouldn't be positive. The only thing he was certain of was that she couldn't continue to live like this or it would destroy her. He had to find some way to get that through to her otherwise this massive waste of their lives and love would drag on and on. He didn't want that and, deep down, he was certain that she didn't, either.

The duck had lost interest and paddled off down-stream to find a happier hunting ground. After watching it disappear he heaved another silent sigh, turned away and walked back towards Lambeth Bridge, more contemplative this time. If there was a way through this mess he would find it. He had to, for both their sakes.

_Heart's a mess (W De Backer, I Burgie, W Attaway): Gotye_

_Pick apart the pieces of your heart and let me peer inside._

_Let me in where only your thoughts have been, _

_Let me occupy your mind as you do mine._

_You have lost (too much love) to fear, doubt and distrust (it's not enough)._

_You just threw away the key (to your heart)._

_You don't get burned (cause nothing gets through)._

_It makes it easier (easier on you) but that much more difficult for me to make you see._

_Love ain't fair. So there you are, my love._

_Your heart's a mess. You won't admit to it._

_It makes no sense but I'm desperate to connect and you, you can't live like this._

_Love ain't safe._

_You won't get hurt if you stay chaste so you can wait but I don't wanna waste my love._


	2. Arms

**2. Arms**

She couldn't breathe. Oh God, she couldn't breathe. The city spread out below her as she leaned on the railings, half doubled-over and fighting to control the terror that was swamping her, body and mind, but she couldn't see any of it through the tears that kept flooding her eyes. Far below, the streets teemed with life: people going about their daily business, birds soaring between the buildings and trees, rats and cockroaches scuttling, in time-honoured ways, through the dank darkness beneath the surface, all oblivious to the woman gazing down at them who was equally oblivious to their existence. Her mind was, instead, on another roof-top, somewhere out there among the new glass towers and ancient stone spires, where the man she loved was confronting one of the most unpredictable threats he had ever faced.

Somewhere out there where, under a clear blue sky and a cold, uncaring sun, he may be about to die. And what had their last words to each other been? Angry, accusatory, unfair, designed to hurt. When he had spat her words back at her it had been like a bucket of cold water drenching her emotions and she had stared after him in stunned disbelief as he had disappeared without a backwards glance, coldly furious with her and, worse, totally uncaring for himself. The full implications of what he was going to do had hit at the same time and she had dissolved, under the disconcerted eyes of Tariq, into hot tears as she realised that she had no excuse for her words or actions, today or for God knows how long, apart from some unfathomable desire to transfer her own anger, guilt and hurt on to him, either as an endless test of his love, as punishment for it, or both. Right now she had absolutely no idea about anything apart from an all-encompassing horror and dread of what was happening out there, where he was all alone. No help, no backup; he could be dead already for all she knew. Twenty four hours ago he had saved her life; today, she had thanked him by sending him, angry and hurting, to what might be the end of his. How on Earth had it come to this?

As she stood on the roof-top trying to regain some control over her breathing and the endlessly-welling tears her mind skipped and danced through the past years, from when she had arrived, young, naive, terrified and excited, from the geeks-ville of GCHQ, to today, no longer young and naive but possibly more terrified than ever because now she knew a thing or two about how the world really worked. One of those things was exactly what Lucas – no, _John_, she remembered, Lucas would never have descended to this – was likely to do and another was that she had loved Harry Pearce from her first day on the job, still did and always would. He had made one of his deliberatle terrible jokes and she had laughed at it that morning after her spectacular entrance into the meeting room, spilling files all over the place, and there had been genuine warmth in his eyes, unlike everyone else around the table who were all staring at her as though she had just dropped in from Mars, and she had been his from that moment. Not that either of them had realised it then, or for quite some time afterwards: he was old enough to be her father (yes, she knew what the average psychologist – amateur or professional – would say about that), immensely powerful with a towering intellect and a maverick reputation that scared the daylights out of just about everyone, inside and outside the intelligence community, while she was young not only in years but even younger in experience; fearsomely bright, yes, but fearsomely naive as well, with little idea of the world and even less of men. If it hadn't initially occurred to her that she would fall in love with him, that he would feel the same about her when it did happen was something that seemed even less likely. Yet it _had_ happened; without either of them intending it, he had swept her off her feet. And she had promptly pushed him away, and had continued to do so every time they started to get too close.

Why exactly was it like that? Her focus on the outer world became a little clearer as she considered the question, her tears slowing so it was no longer like looking out from behind a waterfall, more like peering through the surface of a clear, swiftly flowing stream with the details much more visible, albeit slightly distorted. God, how many times had she considered that question, from the early days, throughout the length of her exile in Cyprus and since. She had never come up with a satisfactory answer, or not a logical one – she could say she was scared of personal relationships but that wasn't true (she _had _had serious relationships before they had met and then there had been George – although that was easier, as she hadn't been Ruth in Cyprus, she had been someone else and, if she was honest with herself, George had only been a substitute for the one she hadn't allowed Ruth to have); after her return she could say she was angry with both him and the job but that wasn't true, either. Once over the shock of George's death she had understood Harry's decision perfectly and would not have expected – nor wanted – him to do anything else and she had, anyway, known what the job was likely to entail when she had first taken it. In fact, she had even been rather excited by it all in the early days. So, clearly, it was something much deeper and darker than that. Somewhere she didn't like to go too often.

She didn't think she deserved him and she was convinced that, if she did accept what he was offering, it would all go wrong. Because everything good always had. That was the nub of it. Stupid and irrational though it was. The analyst in her could competently destroy those arguments but unfortunately the internal software that had been programmed into her from childhood was stronger and inevitably over-rode the logic, particularly when she was under pressure. She didn't like herself much, never had, which had always led her to perversely pushing and pushing at anything good that happened, daring it to break, which eventually and inevitably it did, destroying her fragile self-esteem a little more and reinforcing that she wasn't worth the effort, that she was a bit of a jonah. So she had hidden her self in the safest place possible – behind the facade of the job – thinking it made sense and that it was easier to not be involved. Which it had been until Cupid and his bloody arrow had turned up.

How patient had the man been? Sounds were starting to filter up from the street as her sobs finally ceased and she straightened up, although still clutching the railing for dear life as her thoughts continued to roam. Time and again she had pushed him away, thinking it would make it easier for him to let her go, back to where she felt safe, and time and again he wouldn't do it, remaining steadfast. Never having experienced such constancy she had been at a loss, wavering between desperately wanting what he offered and the fear of accepting it, and he had let her waver as she fought her internal demons for supremacy. Unfortunately for them both, the demons almost always won. The only time she had really found herself a reason to be loved by him had been as they stood on that dock, all those years ago, when she thought that the nobility of her actions might actually allow her to accept such a reward but still she had left – had had no option but to do so – with some vague idea that he might follow her, despite knowing that was impossible, for her own safety. Now, in this instant, she could find no reason to be loved, by anyone, least of all him. Her world was collapsing around her and had been for months but all she had been able to do was continue to try to wound herself by wounding him and driving him away. Now it looked like she might have really, finally succeeded.

And yet, and yet... The ultimate irony was that, for the last decade and almost the only time in her adult life, she had only ever truly felt something akin to being emotionally 'home' when she was with him.

The tears returned, as did the sobs, and the city dissolved again. She was a mess, always had been, but she had done her best to not let him see this, the worst of her impulses. However, the previous few days had blown it all open, never again to be hidden, to either of them. How she had wished that he would see through her walls and somehow rescue the desperate soul inside but he hadn't, had never been able to see the full truth because, contrarily, she would never let him – she had never been able to open up to the possibility of that rescue. Well, that wasn't going to happen again. She swore, by any and every God that may or may not exist, that if he returned from this confrontation, everything would be different. She would beat the demons – not only beat them, exorcise them once and for all – and allow herself to live without their shackles. If she got really lucky, she would find that not only had he been able to see through her defences all along but that she, in turn, would be able to navigate her way though his and they could re-boot their sad and sorry tale towards a happier ending and find somewhere where they both belonged.

She didn't hear or see Tariq as he approached her. Hesitantly, he laid a hand on her arm. At first she didn't register what he was saying but then she did.

"...Lucas is dead. But he's alright. Harry. He's alright."

She had the strangest feeling of being weightless and yet falling. Wasn't that was weightlessness actually was? A constant falling towards the Earth without ever making it to the surface? She just hoped he was there to catch her, that they could catch each other, before either of them fatally hit the deck.

_Arms. (C Perri) Christina Perri._

_I never thought that you would be the one to hold my heart  
but you came around and you knocked me off the ground from the start.  
You put your arms around me and I believe that it's easier for you to let me go.  
You put your arms around me and I'm home.  
How many times will you let me change my mind and turn around?  
I can't decide if I'll let you save my life or if I'll drown.  
I hope that you see right through my walls.  
I hope that you catch me, 'cause I'm already falling.  
I'll never let a love get so close.  
You put your arms around me and I'm home  
The world is coming down on me and I can't find a reason to be loved.  
I never wanna leave you but I can't make you bleed if I'm alone.  
You put your arms around me and I believe that it's easier for you to let me go.  
I tried my best to never let you in to see the truth.  
And I've never opened up, I've never truly loved 'til you put your arms around me  
and I believe that it's easier for you to let me go.  
You put your arms around me and I'm home._


	3. We Won't Run

**3. We Won't Run**

St James' Park had become their meeting point, once or twice a week. It was close enough for both of them to walk to, she from the Grid, he from his exile at home, provided ample opportunities to either walk or sit while they talked and made it almost impossible for anyone to listen in, at least discretely. Not that they discussed much of interest to national security or anyone else: he wouldn't let her endanger her job and she wouldn't let him endanger the course of the enquiry and his future freedom. Albany had been dealt with early, before he had voluntarily removed himself from his office, preferring to slip away quietly and with a modicum of dignity rather than a lot of spectacle. His explanation, delivered simply and directly while they were up on the roof, had made perfect sense and left her both humbled and with a lot to think about.

Since then they had stayed on safer topics, slowly building up a trust and rapport that was both similar to what they had once had, half a decade before, but was also different, coloured by the extra years and experiences, allowing them to develop a more mature relationship. Not that it had moved beyond a very close friendship yet but they were both content with that state of affairs for the moment, while everything was so uncertain, and that realisation made them both surprisingly comfortable, within themselves and with each other. Over the weeks they had riffled through the pages of their pasts, stopping here and there to cast light on what had previously been hidden, unknown or was just plain interesting. Both worked hard, and generally succeeded, on avoiding being judgemental with any of these small revelations, although that proved harder to do when they were at their separate homes, alone, at night and the darkness threatened to twist things into paranoia and doubt. To their credit, neither carried the doubts any further, preferring to evict them back to the darkness from whence they had come and believing instead that it was all leading to somewhere better, out in the light where they had never really been before. .

Knowing that, despite their best efforts, they were still likely to be being listened to, one way or the other, they tended to keep things light, even when straying into deeper personal territory. On their one attempt at lunch (a bit of a disaster due to a combination of, initially, the embarrassment of one of their tails being placed at the only other small table available, directly behind them – not helped by him very deliberately making eye contact with the lad! – and then the small, quiet restaurant being over-run by hordes of drunken bankers celebrating some mega-deal going off, raising the roof with their ear-splitting din) he had insisted on starting out by boring the tail witless with a detailed discussion on Josephus and the Judaean Wars (she could see the poor kid and he looked as though he wanted to stick a fork in his eye-ball to relieve the tedium) but, once the decibel levels of the bankers had drowned out any chance of being over-heard, they had returned to the broader subject of how well you could, or could not, know someone from what was written and said about them and how easily that, or even your knowledge of your self, could be skewed by what others said. At that point he couldn't resist a gently teasing reference to the events after their first dinner, all those years ago; she took it in good stead, not getting defensive as he had half expected but instead declaring that she had grown up a bit since then and would now tell anyone who did the same thing to go away. Only probably less politely than that!

Another occasion saw them mixing with the lunch-time crowds on a glorious Spring day in the park, leaning on the railings of the Blue Bridge and watching a pair of black swans gliding elegantly over the water below them as they talked. Somehow the subject strayed onto the dark times of their recent history and how she had tended to see, for a while, only evil at work wherever she looked; he pointed out, gently, lightly, that they had all had very good reason to be suspicious of much that was going on at the time but that was ancient history and now they had the opportunity to set everything to rights again and he had every intention of taking advantage of that chance. To which sentiment she heartily agreed, with a somewhat self-deprecating smile, because she was well and truly tired of all the guilt, of feeling sorry, and that she thought they had more than suffered enough and were owed some peace and happiness. It was time to stand and fight for what they wanted and she had no desire to waste another minute of their lives in pain, denial or anything else that would keep them from the light. John Bateman had opened their eyes and she was damned if she was going to let them be closed again, not without a fight.

At that point he could have cheerfully kissed her but contented himself with surreptitiously linking his little finger through hers and giving a lightning-fast wink, to which she responded with an equally fast grin. Their days of running were over; the enquiry would also be over in another week or so and they would be free to build a happier future on their new foundations. For once, there was not a single cloud on the horizon.

_We Won't Run. (S Blasko) Sarah Blasko_

_Pages turning, lights are burning, see what you could not see._

_It's plain as the day the night makes you pay for what was hidden underneath._

_Longing to leave but begging to feel that something will make you stay._

_Gotta believe that this all leads to somewhere we've never been._

_We won't run, we can fight all that keeps us up at night._

_There is far to go now, let's not waste a minute more in denial._

_I always thought you knew yourself better than anyone._

_The season was lost and you started listening to everyone else._

_Cast in as devil, I've got the mettle, the means to make things right._

_Tired of guilt, tired of being sorry, haven't we suffered enough?_

_We won't run, we can fight all that keeps us up at night. _

_There is far to go now, let's not waste a minute more. But oh, that our eyes will be open._

_We won't fear, we can fight all that we can bring to light_

_There is far to go now, let's not waste a minute more of our lives._


	4. Ohne dich

**4. Ohne dich (Without you)**

His left knee was hurting with a grating, burning pain as he stumped doggedly upwards towards the top of the rise. It was cold, with the sort of lazy breeze that went straight through, rather than around, leaving him chilled to the bone despite his thick jacket. Rushing through the tree-tops, bending them to its will, it also brought with it the screams of sea birds and the crashing of waves on the beach as well as the tang of salt, visible as a silvery mist of ultra-fine aerosols. Everything was silvery at this time of day, or silvery-blue, the remnant soft colours of late Autumn bleached into pallid uniformity now that the sun was about to dip below the horizon, its remaining weak light rendered watery by the high haze of cirrus floating above.

The physical pain and the cold were at least giving him something on which to focus while he walked, something apart from that other pain which had become his Familiar over the past six months. He had visited her this morning – the first time in a while – and it had been the same as it always was: a bit of a pointless exercise. It neither helped to ease the grief nor made it any worse because she wasn't there. There was the beautiful, understated, polished Larvikite monument, bearing her name and dates and that Latin inscription, with the schiller from the huge feldspar crystals shimmering the same shade of blue as her eyes, but that was all. She was not there. Like all the rest of them, she was not where the physical remains were, she was where they had spent the most time together, on the floor of the Grid. And even there she was fading, slowly but surely, as had all of the others. _Time may be the healer,_ he thought, cresting the hill, _but only because it made you forget all the small things that make us what we are._

A particularly massive set of waves came ashore just as he approached the edge of the cliff, causing the ground to vibrate and startling a flock of skuas from their roosts into a roiling mass of feathered objections just in front of him before they dipped their wings and banked away towards the water's surface. The spray left a thin film of salt on his face that he wiped away, calmly and patiently, as he sat on a wooden bench that looked out over the ocean in the way that another wooden bench looked out over a river, many miles away. Here there were no constraints on the view, no buildings or lights, not even any boats. Only the ocean, stretching to the vanishing horizon, changeless (apart from minor surface squalls) and eternal. _ Not unlike himself at the moment_, he thought, _calm, patient and changeless, beneath the occasional surface storm._ It was the only way he knew how to function at times like this. Turn off every hint of emotion and just work, not think and definitely not feel. He knew the calmness had his team, and Catherine, worried, but it was how he had coped on every previous occasion, from the loss of his mother onwards, and he hoped it was a strategy that would work again. He supposed he was approaching the acceptance stage, which you had to at some point, otherwise you would go mad, but that didn't mean he _could_ actually accept it: it was more an inevitable acknowledgment of the facts, no more.

The sun finally slid out of view and even the silvery-blue became muted, with the surface of the water now a shade of slate, slashed with white-caps closer to shore. The skuas had all returned to their perches and the evening was beginning to throw its dark cloth over the land behind him, leaving the belt of trees and the hills and valleys beyond slowly vanishing into a dark emptiness where no birds sang and little rustled the undergrowth, it being too late for the creatures of the day and too early for those of the night. Up where he was, though, what light that remained was gently luminous so he continued to sit and ponder.

He had visited all of them over the past few months, from Bill to Tariq, until he had reached the end of the cycle this morning, with her. There was no particular reason for it – he had always continued to quietly attend them, albeit at random intervals that ranged from months to years – but it just felt appropriate, reviewing the past 35 years of his life. He had even visited Lucas (despite everything, he would always remain Lucas, not the unknown John Bateman) in his quiet, lonely, neglected grave on a wind-swept hillside that was so unlike the beautiful parkland in which Ruth lay. Unbeknownst to anyone at the time or since, he had slipped away from his home and his tails to attend the young man's burial, expecting to be the only one there but had found Malcolm already in attendance, of course. They had been the only two, apart from the cemetery worker; there had not even been the most cursory of services organised, so Malcolm had said a few words instead and he himself had felt strangely gutted by it all. Such a pointless bloody waste. Some of them had at least gone for a reason but so many others (among them Helen, Colin, Tariq and, most obviously of all, Ruth) had gone for no reason at all, apart from being in the wrong place at the wrong time and they were the ones who haunted him the most, always had, always would.

Ruth, of course, was the ultimate example. Christ, she hadn't even been working for them any more but _still_… Pointless. All pointless. As everything seemed to be, if you really thought about it. All the dramas of humanity, large and small, his and everyone else's, all pointless in the face of the eternal sea in front of him or on the time scale of the universe above. Such logical thinking kept the darkness at bay most of the time, when he wasn't otherwise busying himself, but not on days like today. These were the times when he found himself hopelessly alone and lonely, struggling to remember how to be himself again. Without her. Counting the hours and the days that he had been without her. Sooner or later those thoughts would draw him back to her side, as they had this morning, with the inevitable result that would see him ending up somewhere like this, as far from humanity as possible, seeking solace in solitude. Because she wasn't there. The bitter realisation that, even when he _was_ with her, as much as he ever could now be, he was still and would always be without her. At such moments seconds would stretch into millennia and then snap back as though nothing had happened. Seconds, hours, millennia: they weren't worth it without her.

The darkness was almost total by now and he could barely see the ocean, although the regular thump of the waves confirmed it was still there. Almost as omniscient and omnipotent as time itself, even the land gave way eventually under its onslaught. It went on, time went on, life went on. Including his. Without her.

He could feel his chest constricting, making breathing hard, and he scrubbed at his face, realising he was getting maudlin. _You've been thinking too much. _It was time to go, leave the sea and the land to their endless battle and return to London and his own war against the equally endless tides of evil. Without her but in her name and in the names of all the endless others, past, present and future, who had been or would be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Turning his back on the unquiet water, head down, he walked into the darkness.

_Ohne dich. (R Kruspe, P Landers, T Lindemann, C Lorenz, O Riedel, C Schneider): Rammstein. Translation from the German taken from ._

Ich werde in die Tannen gehen, dahen wo ich sie zuletzt gesehen.

_I'm going to go into the fir trees, there where I last saw her._

Doch der Abend wirft ein Tuch aufs Land und auf die Wege hinterm Waldesrand und der Wald er steht so schwarz und leer.

_But the evening is throwing a cloth upon the land and upon the ways behind the edge of the forest and the forest it is so black and empty._

Weh mir, oh weh und die Vögel singen nicht mehr.

_Woe is me, oh woe and the birds sing no more._

Ohne dich kann ich nicht sein, ohne dich. Mit dir bin ich auch allein, ohne dich.

_Without you I cannot be, without you. With you I am alone too, without you._

Ohne dich zähl ich die Stunden ohne dich. Mit dir stehen die Sekunden. Lohnen nicht.

_Without you I count the hours without you. With you the seconds stand still. They aren't worth it._

Auf den Ästen in den Gräben ist es nun still und ohne Leben und das Atmen fällt mir ach so schwer.

_On the branches, in the ditches it is now silent and without life and breathing becomes so hard for me._

Weh mir, oh weh und die Vögel singen nicht mehr.

_Woe is me, oh woe and the birds sing no more._

Ohne dich kann ich nicht sein, ohne dich. Mit dir bin ich auch allein, ohne dich.

_Without you I cannot be, without you. With you I am alone too, without you._

Ohne dich zähl ich die Stunden ohne dich. Mit dir stehen die Sekunden.

_Without you I count the hours without you. With you the seconds stand still._

Lohnen nicht ohne dich.

_They aren't worth it without you. _

Ohne dich.

_Without you._


End file.
